THE  WINTER  HOUR  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  WINTER  HOUR 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
ROBERT   UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON 


NEW  YORK 

THE   CENTURY  CO. 
1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


TO 
RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 


623807 


CONTENTS 


INVOCATION:  To  THE  GORSE i 

THE  WINTER  HOUR 3 

WITH  INTERLUDES: 

Hearth-Song. 

The  Lost  Rose. 

A  Madonna  of  Dagnan-Bouveret. 

Love  in  Italy. 

A  SPRING  PRELUDE 28 

BEFORE  THE  BLOSSOM 30 

LOVE  IN  THE  CALENDAR 32 

A  SEPTEMBER  VIOLET 34 

SEPTEMBER'S  EVE 36 

OCTOBER 38 

IN  NOVEMBER 39 

ON  NEARING  WASHINGTON 41 

"As  A  BELL  IN  A  CHIME" 42 

IN  THE  DARK 44 

GOOD  MEASURE  OF  LOVE 47 

NOBLESSE  OBLIGE 49 

ON  A  CANDIDATE  ACCUSED  OF  YOUTH          ...  50 
WASHINGTON  HYMN.     (Sung  at  the  laying  of  the  corner- 
stone of  the  Washington  Memorial  Arch,  New  York, 

May  30,  1890.) 51 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.    (On  the  Death  of  Garfield.)  53 

ILLUSIONS 55 

TO-MORROW 56 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BURIAL  URN 57 

QUALITY 58 

LUCK  AND  WORK *       .        .  60 

ON  A  GREAT  POET'S  OBSCURITY        ....  61 

WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS 62 

AMIEL.     (The  "Journal  Intime.")        ....  64 
"THE  GUEST  OF  THE  EVENING."    (Read  at  the  dinner 
to  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  on  his  birthday,  February 

8,  1884.) 65 

SALVINI 66 

FOR  TEARS 67 

APPREHENSIONS    .        .        .        .        .       .        .    "    .  68 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO      .        .       .       ...       ...  69 

AT  SEA 71 

MOODS  OF  THE  SOUL 72 

I.     In  Time  of  Victory. 
II.    In  Time  of  Defeat. 

To  LEONORA.     (At  her  D£but,  October  18,  1891.)      .  75 

HERBERT  MAPES.     (Drowned  August  23,  1891.)    .         .  76 

A  WISH  FOR  NEW  FRANCE 77 

DIVIDED   HONORS.      (Written  for  the  dinner  to  James 

Whitcomb  Riley  at  Indianapolis,  October  18,  1888.)    .  78 

A  TRACER  FOR  J***  B******* 83 


THE  WINTER  HOUR  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


INVOCATION:    TO   THE    GORSE 


'  When  the  gorse  is  out  of  bloom,  then  love  is  out  of  season. "- 

ENGLISH  PROVERB. 


HARDY  gorse,  that  all  year  long 
Blooms  upon  the  English  moor, 
Let  me  set  thee  at  the  door 

Of  this  little  book  of  song. 

When  the  dreary  winter  lowers, 
Vainly  dost  thou  seek  a  fellow 
To  thy  blossom  brave  and  yellow  — 

Color  of  the  cheeriest  flowers. 

Thou  of  love  perennial  art 

Such  a  symbol  that  they  say : 
"  When  no  gorse-bloom  greets  the  day, 
There  's  no  love  in  any  heart." 


INVOCA  TION 

Thus  all  days  are  Love's  and  thine. — 
Spicy  flower  on  thorny  branch, 
In  Love's  service  thou  art  stanch  — 

Wilt  thou,  wilding,  enter  mine  ? 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 


THE   WINTER    HOUR 


OF  all  the  hours  of  day  or  night 
Be  mine  the  winter  candle-light, 
When  Day's  usurpers  of  Love's  throne  — 
Fame,  Pride,  and  tyrant  Care — are  flown, 
And  hearts  are  letters  of  hid  desire 
Yielding  their  secrets  at  the  fire. 
Now  beauty  in  a  woman's  face 
Glows  with  a  sympathetic  grace, 
And  friend  draws  closer  unto  friend, 
Like  travelers  near  a  journey's  end; 
In  casual  talk  some  common  hope 
Finds  fresher  wing  and  farther  scope ; 
The  eye  has  language  fit  to  speak 
Thoughts  that  by  day  't  were  vain  to  seek 
Out  of  their  silence ;  and  the  hand 
Grasps  with  a  comrade's  sure  demand. 
Pile  high  the  winter's  cheer  and  higher, — 
The  world  is  saved,  not  lost,  by  fire ! 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 


HEARTH- SONG 

WHEN  November's  night  comes  down 
With  a  dark  and  sudden  frown, 
Like  belated  traveler  chill 
Hurrying  o'er  the  tawny  hill,— 

Higher,  higher 

Heap  the  pine-cones  in  a  pyre ! 
Where  's  a  warmer  friend  than  fire  ? 

Song  's  but  solace  for  a  day; 
Wine  's  a  traitor  not  to  trust ; 
Love  's  a  kiss  and  then  away ; 
Time  's  a  peddler  deals  in  dust. 

Higher,  higher 
Pile  the  driftwood  in  a  pyre  ! 
Where  's  a  firmer  friend  than  fire  ? 

Knowledge  was  but  born  to-night ; 
Wisdom  's  to  be  born  to-morrow ; 
One  more  log — and  banish  sorrow, 
One  more  branch  —  the  world  is  bright. 

Higher,  higher 

Crown  with  balsam-boughs  the  pyre  ! 
Where  's  an  older  friend  than  fire  ? 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 


O  SILENT  hour  that  sacred  is 

To  our  sincerest  reveries!  — 

When  peering  Fancy  fondly  frames 

Swift  visions  in  the  oak-leaved  flames; 

When  Whim  has  magic  to  command 

Largess  and  lore  from  every  land, 

And  Memory,  miser-like,  once  more 

Counts  over  all  her  hoarded  store. 

Now  phantom  moments  come  again 

In  a  long  and  lingering  train, 

As  not  content  to  be  forgot  — 

(O  Death !  when  I  remember  not 

Such  moments,  may  my  current  run, 

Alph-like,  to  thy  oblivion  ! ) : 

The  summer  bedtime,  when  the  sky  — 

The  boy's  first  wonder  —  gathers  nigh, 

And  cows  are  lowing  at  the  bars, 

And  fireflies  mock  the  early  stars 

That  seem  to  hang  just  out  of  reach  — 

Like  a  bright  thought  that  lacks  of  speech; 

The  wistful  twilight's  tender  fall, 

When  to  the  trundle  comes  the  call 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Of  fluting  robins,  mingling  sweet 
With  voices  down  the  village  street; 
The  drowsy  silence,  pierced  with  fear 
If  evil-omened  owl  draw  near, 
Quaking  with  presage  of  the  night; 
The  soft  surrender  when,  from  sight 
Hid  like  a  goddess  in  a  cloud, 
Comes  furtive  Sleep,  with  charm  endowed 
To  waft  the  willing  child  away 
Far  from  the  margin  of  the  day, 
Till  chanticleer  with  roystering  blare 
Of  reveille  proclaims  the  glare. 
Remember? — how  can  one  forget 
(Since  Memory  's  but  Affection's  debt) 
Those  faery  nights  that  hold  the  far, 
Soft  rhythm  of  the  low  guitar, 
When  not  more  sweetly  zephyr  blows 
And  not  more  gently  Afton  flows 
Than  the  dear  mother's  voice,  to  ease 
The  hurts  of  day  with  brook  and  breeze, 
To  soothing  chords  that  haunt  the  strings 
Like  shadows  of  the  song  she  sings! 
And  as  the  music's  lullaby 
Locks  down  at  last  the  sleepy  eye, 


THE   WINTER  HOUR 

Green  visions  of  a  distant  hill 

The  fancy  of  the  singer  fill, 

While  spreads  Potomac's  pausing  stream, 

And  moonlight  sets  her  heart  adream 

Of  that  old  time  when  love  was  made 

With  valentine  and  serenade. 

Now,  too,  come  bedtimes  when  the  stair 
Was  never  climbed  alone. —  Ah,  where, 
Beyond  the  midnight  and  the  dawn, 
Has  now  that  other  footstep  gone? 
Does  sound  or  echo  more  reveal 
When  thirty  winters  may  not  steal 
That  still-returning  tread, — that  voice, 
That  made  the  timid  child  rejoice 
Against  the  terrors  of  the  wind, — 
That  tender  tone  that  smoothed  the  mind  ? 
Great  heart  of  pity !  it  was  then 
God  seemed  a  father,  denizen 
Of  His  own  world,  not  chained  to  feet 
Of  some  far,  awful  judgment-seat. 
Then  was  revealed  the  reverent  soul 
Whom  creed  nor  doubt  could  from  the 
goal 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Of  goodness  swerve;  who  need  not  bend 
To  be  of  each  just  cause  the  friend. 
Of  whose  small  purse  and  simple  prayer 
The  neediest  had  the  largest  share; 
Beloved  of  child,  and  poor,  and  slave, 
Nor  yet  more  lovable  than  brave; 
Whom  place  could  not  allure,  nor  pelf, — 
To  all  men  generous  save  himself; 
Whose  passion  Freedom  was  —  with  no 
Heat-lightning  rage  devoid  of  blow, 
But  as  a  bridegroom  might  defend 
His  chosen,  to  the  furious  end. 

Still  other  moments  come  apace, 
Each  with  fond,  familiar  face: 
The  pleasures  of  an  inland  boy 
To  whom  great  Nature  was  a  toy 
For  which  all  others  were  forsook  — 
A  spirit  blithesome  as  a  brook 
Whose  song  in  ripples  crystalline 
Doth  flow  soft  silences  between; 
The  dormant  soul's  slow  wakenings 
To  dimly-apprehended  things; 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

The  sudden  vision  in  the  night 
As  by  a  conflagration's  light ; 
The  daily  miracle  of  breath ; 
The  awe  of  battle  and  of  death ; 
The  tears  of  grief  at  Sumter's  gun, 
The  tears  of  joy  when  war  was  done, 
And  all  the  fainting  doubt  that  masked 
As  hope  when  news  of  war  was  asked. 
And  oh !  that  best-remembered  place, 
That  perfect  moment's  melting  grace, — 
The  look,  the  smile,  the  touch,  the  kiss, 
The  halo  of  self-sacrifice, — 
When  Nature's  passion,  bounteous  June, 
To  Love's  surrender  added  boon, 
As  though  the  heir  of  every  age 
Had  come  into  his  heritage. 

THE   LOST   ROSE 

THERE  was  a  garden  sweet  and  gay, 
Where  rarest  blossoms  did  delay 
The  look  that  Fanny  bent  to  find 
The  flower  fairest  to  her  mind, 
Till,  at  her  word,  I  plucked  for  her 
A  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

The  red  did  with  the  svhite  agree, 

Like  passion  blent  in  purity; 

And  as  she  blushed  and  blushed  the  more. 

Till  she  was  like  the  bloom  she  bore, 

I  said,  "Dear  heart,  I  too  prefer 

The  rose  of  York-and- Lancaster." 

'T  is  years  ago  and  miles  away ! 
For  oh !    nor  rose  nor  maid  could  stay 
To  freshen  other  Junes.     And  yet 
How  few  who  do  not  quite  forget !  — 
Or  know  to  which  the  words  refer : 
'  Sweet  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster. " 

In  vain,  when  roses  do  appear 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  year, 
I  search  the  tangle  and  the  town 
Among  the  roses  of  renown, 
And  still  the  answer  is — "Oh,  sir, 
We  know  no  York-and-Lancaster." 

But  ah,  my  heart,  it  knows  the  truth, 
And  where  was  sown  that  seed  of  youth ; 
And  though  the  world  have  lost  the  rose, 
There  's  still  one  garden  where  it  grows  — 
Where  every  June  it  breathes  of  her, 
My  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 


III 


Now  call  the  Muses'  aid  to  flout 

The  bleak  storm's  roaring  rage  without; 

And  bring  it  hail,  or  bring  it  snow, 

It  shall  be  Love's  delight  to  show 

What  Fire  and  two  defenders  dare 

Against  the  legions  of  the  air, 

Whose  sharpest  arrows  shall  not  find 

Cleft  in  the  armor  of  the  mind. 

Why  dread  we  Winter's  deep  distress, 

His  pale  and  frigid  loneliness, 

When  here  at  hand  are  stored,  in  nooks, 

All  climes,  all  company,  in  books ! 

A  moving  tale  for  every  mood, 

Shakspere  for  all, —  the  fount  and  food 

Of  gentle  living, —  Fancy's  link 

'Twixt  what  we  are  and  what  we  think, — 

Fellow  to  stars  that  nightly  plod 

Old  Space,  yet  kindred  to  the  clod. 

Choose  now  from  his  world's  wizard  play 

What  is  frolicsome  and  gay; 

'T  was  for  such  evening  he  divined 

Not  Juliet  but  Rosalind. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Put  the  storied  sorrow  down, — 

Not  to-night,  with  Jove-like  frown, 

Shall  the  mighty  Tuscan  throw 

Fateful  lightnings  at  his  foe, 

Nor  Hawthorne  bend  his  graceful  course 

To  follow  motive  to  its  source. 

No,  let  gladness  greet  the  ear: 

Cervantes'  wit,  or  Chaucer's  cheer, 

Or  Lamb's  rich  cordial,  pure  and  sweet, 

Where  aromatic  tinctures  meet; 

Or  princely  Thackeray,  whose  pages 

Yield  humor  wiser  than  the  sages ; 

Or,  set  in  cherished  place  apart, 

Poets  that  keep  the  world  in  heart: 

Milton's  massive  lines  that  pour 

Like  waves  upon  a  windward  shore; 

Wordsworth's  refuge  from  the  crowd  — 

The  peace  of  noon-day's  poised  cloud; 

That  flaming  torch  a  jealous  line 

Passed  on  to  Keats  from  Beauty's  shrine ; 

Visions  of  Shelley's  prophet-soul, 

That,  seeing  part,  could  sing  the  whole, 

Most  like  a  lark  that  mounts  so  high 

He  sees  not  earth  but  from  the  sky. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  13 

And  of  the  bards  who  in  the  grime 
And  turmoil  of  our  changing  time 
Have  kept  the  faith  of  men  most  pure 
The  three  whose  harps  shall  last  endure  : 
Browning,  Knight  of  Song, — so  made 
By  Nature's  royal  accolade, — 
Whose  lines,  as  life-blood  full  and  warrn;- 
Search  for  the  soul  within  the  form, 
And  in  the  treasures  of  whose  lore 
Is  Love,  Love,  ever  at  the  core; 
Tennyson,  of  the  silver  string, 
Wisest  of  the  true  that  sing, 
And  truest  singer  of  the  wise; 
And  he  whose  "  stairway  of  surprise  " 
Soars  to  an  outlook  whence  appear 
All  best  things,  fair,  and  sure,  and  near. 


IV 


UPON  the  wall  some  impress  fine 
Of  Angelo's  majestic  line  — 
Seer  or  sibyl,  dark  with  fate ; 
Near,  and  all  irradiate, 


14  THE    WINTER   HOUR 

Bellini's  holy  harmonies, 

Bringing  the  gazer  to  his  knees ; 

One  group  to  hint  from  what  a  height 

Titian  with  color  dowers  the  sight; 

A  pageant  of  Carpaccio, 

Flushed  with  an  autumn  sunset-glow ; 

Then,  of  Luini's  pensive  race, 

The  Columbine's  alluring  grace; 

And,  echo  of  an  age  remote, 

Beato's  pure  and  cloistered  note. 

And  be  not  absent  from  the  rest 

Some  later  flame  of  beauty  (blest 

As  a  new  star),  lest  it  he  said 

That  Art,  that  had  its  day,  is  dead. 

Let  Millet  speak  in  melting  tone  — 

Voicing  the  life  that  once  was  stone, 

Ere  Toil  had  found  another  dawn 

Of  Bethlehem  at  Barbizon. 

Nor  is  it  winter  while  Dupr6 

With  daring  sunlight  leads  the  way 

Into  the  woodland  rich  and  dim; 

Who  love  the  forest,  follow  him; 

And  they  who  lean  the  ear  to  reach 

The  whispering  breath  of  Nature's  speech, 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  15 

May  with   Daubigny  wait  the  night 
Beside  a  lake  of  lambent  light 
And  marged  darkness  —  at  the  hour 
(Soul  of  the  evening !)  when  the  power 
Of  man,  that  morn   with  empire  shod, 
Is  shattered  by  a  thought  of  God ! 
And  ah,  one  more :   we  will  not  wait 
For  Death  to  let  us  call  him  great, 
But,  taking  counsel  of  the  heart 
Stirred  by  his  pure  and  perfect  art, 
Among  the  masters  make  a  place 
For  Dagnan's  fair  Madonna's  face. 


A   MADONNA  OF   DAGNAN-BOUVERET 

OH,  brooding  thought  of  dread ! 
Oh,  calm  of  coming  grief! 
Oh,  mist  of  tears  unshed 
Above  that  shining  head 
That  for  an  hour  too  brief 
Lies  on  thy  nurturing  knee  ! 
How  shall  we  pity  thee, 
Mother  of  sorrows  —  sorrows  yet  to  be ! 


1 6  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

That  babyhood  unknown 
With  all  of  bright  or  fair 
That  lingers  in  our  own 
By  every  hearth  has  shone. 
Each  year  that  light  we  share 
As  Bethlehem  saw  it  shine. 
Be  ours  the  comfort  thine, 
Mother  of  consolations  all  divine ! 


NOR  be  the  lesser  arts  forgot 
On  which  Life  feeds  and  knows  it  not, 
That  everywhere  from  roof  to  portal 
.  Beauty  may  speak  of  the  immortal : 
Forms  that  the  fancy  over-fill; 
Colors  that  give  the  sense  a  thrill; 
Soft  lights  that  fall  through  opal  glass 
On  mellow  stuffs  and  sturdy  brass; 
Corners  of  secrecy  that  invite 
Comfort,  the  handmaid  of  Delight ; 
The  very  breath  of  sculptures  old 
Held  poised  within  a  perfect  mold; 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

A  dainty  vase  of  Venice  make, 

Fashioned  for  its  one  rose's  sake 

Ay,  winter's  miracle  of  flowers 

To  cheat  the  mood  and  mask  the  hours: 

Love's  velvet-petaled  pledge  of  June, 

That,  on  the  wings  of  Passion  strewn, 

Made  courtly  Persia  conqueror 

Of  thrice  the  world  she  lost  in  war;  — 

Jonquils,  that  Tuscan  sunshine  hold 

Within  their  happy  hearts  of  gold;  — 

Narcissus,  such  as  still  are  found 

By  Marathon's  mountain-envied  mound  — 

Food  of  the  soul,  well  bought  with  bread, 

As  sage  Hippocrates  hath  said. 

All  these  perchance  shall  faintly  yield 

Odors  from  some  Sicilian  field 

Where  young  Theocritus  deep-strayed 

In  blooms  celestial  —  where  his  shade, 

Haunting  his  storied  Syracuse, 

Finds  balm  for  his  neglected  Muse. 

Add  wanton  smilax  to  entwine 

Your  Dancing  Faun  or  God  of  Wine, 

And  you  shall  summon  in  a  band 

The  joys  of  every  summer  land. 


1 8  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

VI 

BUT  there  's  a  vision  stirs  the  heart 

Deeper  than  books  or  flowers  or  art, — 

When  Music,  mistress  of  the  mind, 

Lender  not  borrower  from  the  Wind, 

Rival  of  Water  and  of  Light, 

Adds  her  enchantment  to  the  Night. 

What  thoughts  !  what  dreams  !  what  ecstasies 

When  heart  and  fingers  touch  the  keys! 

Across  what  gulf  of  fate  Love  springs 

To  Love,  if  Love  caress  the  strings! 

By  this-  mysterious  amulet 

One  shall  remember  or  forget; 

When  words  and  smiles  and  tears  shall  fail, 

The  might  of  Music  shall  prevail ; 

Shall  move  alike  the  wise  and  weak ; 

All  dialects  alike  shall  speak; 

Outglow  the  rainbow  to  the  doomed. — 

Consuming  all,  be  unconsumed ; 

Shall  save  a  nation  in  its  throes, 

Luring  with  concord  grappling  foes; 

Shall  madden  thus,  yet  shall  be  glad 

(Oh,  paradox !)  to  soothe  the  mad. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  19 

This  rhythmic  language  made  to  reach 
Beyond  the  reticence  of  speech  — 
Bland  as  the  breeze  of  May  it  sighs, 
Or  rolls  reverberant  till  the  skies 
Tremble  with  majesty!     Not  the  mote 
Most  hid  of  all  creation's  rote 
But  holds  some  message  that  shall. be 
Transmuted  into  harmony. 
Already,  since  the  lisping-time 
When  music  was  but  chant  or  chime, 
What  spirits  have  to  man  been  lent 
From  God's  discordless  firmament!  — 
Beethoven,  brother  of  the  Nine, 
But  with  a  birthright  more  divine, — 
Whose  harmonies  that  heavenward  wend 
Wings  to  the  laden  spirit  lend 
Until,  serenely  mounting  higher, 
It  melts  into  the  starry  choir; 
Wagner,  in  whom  the  Passions  meet 
To  throw  themselves  at  Music's  feet, — 
Whose  murmurings  have  charm  to  wring 
From  Love  the  secret  of  the  Spring, — 
And  in  whose  clamor  sounds  the  siege 
Of  heaven  when  Lucifer  was  liege. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Handel,  whose  aspirations  seem 

Like  steps  of  gold  in  Jacob's  dream; 

Mozart,  simplest  of  the  great, 

Heir  of  Melody's  estate, 

Who  did  blithe  pipes  of  Pan  prolong 

And  heighten  to  a  seraph  song. 

Schumann,  rare  poet,  with  a  lyre 

Stringed  in  Imagination's  fire; 

And  oh,  that  one  of  human  strain !  — 

Chopin,  beloved  child  of  pain, 

To  whom  the  whole  of  Love  was  known- 

Marvel,  and  mystery,  and  mean, 

The  joy  secure,  the  jealous  dart 

Deep-ambushed  in  the  doubting  heart, 

And  all  the  perilous  delight 

That  waits  on  doubt,  as  dawn  on  night. 

Ah,  who  shall  wake  the  charm  that  lies 
Past  what  is  written  for  the  eyes 
In  such  a  scroll?     The  poet's  need 
Is  that  a  poet's  heart  should  read. 
Happy  the  winter  hour  and  fleet 
When  flame  and  waiting  passion  meet 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

In  her  pure  fire  whose  chords  betray 
The  St.  Cecilia  of  our  day ! 
Oh,  velvet  of  that  Saxon  hand 
So  lately  iron  to  command !  — 
Like,  at  the  shower's  sudden  stop, 
The  softness  of  the  clinging  drop. 
What  tender  notes  the  trance  prolong 
Of  that  famed  rhythmic  cradle-song! 
How  faery  is  her  woven  spell 
Of  minuet  or  tarantelle! 
Who  would  return  to  earth  when  she 
Transports  us  with  a  rhapsody! 
And  when  in  some  symphonic  burst 
Of  joy  her  spirit  is  immersed, 
That  path  celestial  fain  to  share, 
We  vow  to  breathe  but  noble  air! 


VII 

WARMED  with  melody  like  wine, 
Lighted  by  the  friendly  shine 
Of  the  rich-replenished  hearth, 
Let  us  drink  of  wine  and  mirth 


THE*  WINTER  HOUR 

While  waning  evening's  aftermath 

Grows  pleasant  as  a  winding  path 

With  wit's  surprises  and  the  tale 

Adventurous,  spreading  sudden  sail 

For  Arcady  and  hallowed  haunts 

Along  the  shores  of  old  Romance: 

Now  shall  fare  the  fancy  forth 

To  pillared  grottoes  of  the  north, 

Where  circling  waters  come  again 

Like  thoughts  within  a  sleepless  brain; 

Or,  coursing  down  a  softer  coast 

Whose  beauty  is  the  Old  World's  boast, 

Shall  pause  for  words  while  memory's  flame 

Kindles  at  Taormina's  name. 

And  now  in  shifting  talk  appears 
Pomp  of  cities  clad  with  years: 
Gay  or  gloomy  with  her  skies, 
Gray  Paris  like  an  opal  lies 
Sparkling  on  the  front  of  France. 
Avignon  doth  hold  a  lance 
In  a  tourney-list  with  Nimes. 
Fair  Seville  basks  in  helpless  dream 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  23 

Of  conquest,  as  in  caged  air 

Dreams  the  tamed  lion  of  his  lair. 

Regal  Genoa  still  adorns 

Her  ancient  throne;  and  Pisa  mourns. 

Now  we  traverse  holy  ground 

Where  three  miracles  are  found: 

One  of  beauty  —  when  with  dyes 

Of  her  own  sunset  Venice  vies. 

One  of  beauty  and  of  power — 

Rome,  the  crumbled  Babel-tower 

Of  centuries  piled  on  centuries — 

Scant  refuge  from  Oblivion's  seas 

That  swept  about  her.     And  the  third?  — 

O  heart,  fly  homeward  like  a  bird, 

And  look,  from  Bellosguardo's  goal, 

Upon  a  city  with  a  soul ! 

Who    that    has    climbed    that    heavenly 

height 

When  all  the  west  was  gold  with  light, 
And  nightingales  adown  the  slope 
To  listening  Love  were  lending  hope, 
Till  they  by  vesper  bells  were  drowned, 
As  though  by  censers  filled  with  sound  — 


24  THE    WINTER   HO  UK 

Who —  who  would  wish  a  worthier  end 
To  every  journey?  or  not  blend 
With  those  who  reverently  count 
This  their  Transfiguration  Mount? 


LOVE   IN    ITALY 

THEY  halted  at  the  terrace  wall ; 

Below,  the  towered  city  lay ; 
The  valley  in  the  moonlight's  thrall 

Was  silent  in  a  swoon  of  May. 
As  hand  to  hand  spoke  one  soft  word 

Beneath  the  friendly  ilex-tree, 
They  knew  not,  of  the  flame  that  stirred, 

What  part  was  Love,  what  Italy. 

They  knew  what  makes  the  moon  more  bright 

Where  Beatrice  and  Juliet  are,— 
The  sweeter  perfume  in  the  night, 

The  lovelier  starlight  in  the  star ; 
And  more  that  glowing  hour  did  prove, 

Beneath  the  sheltering  ilex-tree, — 
That  Italy  transfigures  Love, 

As  Love  transfigures  Italy. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  25 


VIII 

AND  thou,  who  art  my  winter  hour — 
Book,  picture,  music,  friend,  and  flower  — 
If  on  such  evening,  dear,  I  trace 
Paths  far  from  Love's  divine  embrace, 
Wandering  till  long  absence  grows 
Into  brief  death  —  less  death's  repose  — 
Let  me  be  missed  with  love  and  cheer, 
As  miss  we  those  of  yesteryear 
With  whom  we  thought  (beguiling  hope!) 
To  stray  together  down  Life's  slope, 
While  Age  came  on  like  gentle  rain. 
They  who  but  ceased  their  joyous  strain  — 
Where  may  the  limit  to  the  sea 
Of  their  bereaving  silence  be? 
Yet  sorrow  not :  we  may  prolong, 
If  not  the  singer's  voice,  the  song. 
And  if  beyond  the  glorious  strife 
Of  this  good  world,  I  tread  new  life, 
Reluctant,  but,  by  Heaven's  aid, 
With  infant  instinct  unafraid. 


26  THE   WINTER  HOL'R 

May  Memory  plead  with  thee  to  save 
Out  of  my  song  its  happier  stave. 
From  the  Dark  Isthmus  let  not  gloom 
Deepen  the  shadows  of  thy  room. 
For  me  no  ban  of  smile  or  jest: 
Life  at  its  full  is  holiest. 
Let  all  thy  days  have  pure  employ 
In  the  high  sanity  of  joy; 
Be  then,  as  now,  the  friend  of  all, 
Thy  heart  a  thronged  confessional, 
A  fount  of  sympathy,  a  store 
Of  jewels  at  an  open  door. 

Here  do  I  falter,  love,  for  fear 

Of  sacrilege  to  what  is  dear. 

Not  now  —  not  here;  some  luminous  time, 

Some  perfect  place,  some  fortunate  rhyme 

May  yield  that  sacrificial  part 

That  poets  fitly  give  to  Art. 

Ever  the  moment  most  elate 

Must  for  a  speech  sufficient  wait; 

Only  the  happiest  know,  alas! 

How  soundless  is  the  brimming  glass. 


THE   WINTER  HOUR  27 

But,  though  Love  need  not  praise  nor  oath, 

And  silence  oft  is  firmer  troth, 

Yet  know  that  if  I  come  no  more, 

'Tis  fault  of  sail,  or  sea,  or  shore, 

Not  of  the  pilot, —  for  the  heart 

Sees  its  way  homeward  from  the  start. 

If  Death  have  bond  that  Love  can  break, 

It  shall  be  broken  for  thy  sake. 

If  spirits  unto  mortals  teach 

Some  rudiment  of  subtler  speech, 

My  presence  shall  about  thee  stay 

To  prompt  the  word  it  cannot  say. 

So  when,  with  late  farewell  and  slow, 
The  guests  into  the  night  shall  go, 
Each  pulse  by  sympathy  more  warm, 
Forgetting  the  forgotten  storm, 
And  thou  alone  into  the  blaze, 
Thrilled  with  the  best  of  life,  shalt  gaze 
With  hunger  for  the  life  divine, 
Oh,  be  that  blessed  moment  mine!  — 
With  thee,  who  art  my  winter  hour, 
Book,  picture,  music,  friend,  and  flower. 


28  A   SPRING  PRELUDE 


A  SPRING   PRELUDE 

O  TARDY  April,  is  thy  full  choir  here  ? 
The  redbreast,  picket  of  the  swarming  spring, 
Whistles  a  sudden  chirrup  of  alarm 
Before  his  level  flight ;  and  soft  at  eve 
His  melody,  on  grass  half-robin  high, 
Falls  like  a  vesper's  throbbings  from  aloft. 
The  sparrow  tempts  the  turf  to  faster  growth 
With  her  coy  nesting,  while  her  happy  mate, 
High  in  the  promise-reddened  maple-top, 
O'er-bubbles  with  ecstasies  of  hoarded  song. 
The  mellow  tunings  of  the  oriole's  flute, 
Rich  as  his  coat,  foretell  his  summer  joy 
And  pitch  the  key  of  gladness  for  the  year. 
Here  is  the  bluebird,  best  of  mates  and  sires, 
And  pewee,  restless  as  a  lover's  fear, 
With  cousin  phoebe,  bleating  tearfully. 
The  humblebee,  that,  nectar-drunk,  shall  soon 
Linger  within  the  sybaritic  flower, 


A    SPRING   PRELUDE  29 

Feeds  his  impatience  at  the  cautious  bud ; 
And  from  the  furrows'  wet  and  windy  reach, 
Where  March  but  lately  swung  his  icy  scythe, 
Ripples  the  velvet  air  about  the  cheek, 
Laden  with  faintest  chorusings,  as  though 
The  brimming  silence  overflowed  in  sound. 

O  tardy  April,  is  the  full  choir  here  ? 

Alas  for  me !  thou  hast  forgot  to  bring 

Out  of  the  South  one  childish,  bird-like  voice, 

Whose  absence  doth  delay  the  year,  and  makes 

My  songs  and  thine  but  preludes  till  she  comes. 


3°  BEFORE    THE  BLOSSOM 


BEFORE   THE   BLOSSOM 

IN  the  tassel-time  of  spring 
Love  's  the  only  song  to  sing; 

Ere  the  ranks  of  solid  shade 
Hide  the  bluebird's  flitting  wing, 

While  in  open  forest  glade 
No  mysterious  sound  or  thing 

Haunt  of  green  has  found  or  made, 
Love  's  the  only  song  to  sing. 

Though  in  May  each  bush  be  dressed 
Like  a  bride,  and  every  nest 

Learn  Love's  joyous  repetend, 
Yet  the  half-told  tale  is  best 

At  the  budding, —  with  its  end 
Much  too  secret  to  be  guessed, 

And  its  fancies  that  attend 
April's  passion  unexpressed. 


BEFORE    THE  BLOSSOM  31 

Love  and  Nature  communing 
Gave  us  Arcady.     Still  ring  — 

Vales  across  and  groves  among  — 
Wistful  memories,  echoing 

Pan's  far-off  and  fluty  song. 
Poet!  nothing  harsher  sing; 

Be,  like  Love  and  Nature,  young 
In  the  tassel-time  of  spring. 


32  LOVE  IN  THE   CALENDAR 


LOVE    IN   THE    CALENDAR 

WHEN  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 

Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 

And  every  sound  's  a  tune; 
When  Nature  fills  a  fuller  cup, 

And  hides  with  green  the  gray, — 
Then,  lover,  pluck  your  courage  up 

To  try  your  fate  in  May. 

Though  proud  she  was  as  sunset  clad 

In  Autumn's  fruity  shades^- 
Love  too  is  proud,  and  brings  (gay  lad!) 

Humility  to  maids. 
Scorn  not  from  nature's  mood  to  learn, 

Take  counsel  of  the  day: 
Since  haughty  skies  to  tender  turn, 

Go  try  your  fate  in  May. 


LOVE   IN  THE   CALENDAR  33 

Though  cold  she  seemed  as  pearly  light 

Adown  December  eves, 
And  stern  as  night  when  March  winds  smite 

The  beech's  lingering  leaves; 
Yet  Love  hath  seasons  like  the  year, 

And  grave  will  turn  to  gay, — 
Then,  lover,  harken  not  to  fear, 

But  try  your  fate  in  May. 

And  you  whose  art  it  is  to  hide 

The  constant  love  you  feel: 
Beware,  lest  overmuch  of  pride 

Your  happiness  shall  steal. 
No  longer  pout,  for  May  is  here, 

And  hearts  will  have  their  way; 
Love  's  in  the  calendar,  my  dear, 

So  yield  to  fate  in  May. 


34  A   SEPTEMBER    VIOLET 


A  SEPTEMBER  VIOLET 

FOR  days  the  peaks  wore  hoods  of  cloud, 

The  slopes  were  veiled  in  chilly  rain; 
We  said:  It  is  the  Summer's  shroud, 
And  with  the  brooks  we  moaned  aloud, — 
Will  sunshine  never  come  again  ? 

At  last  the  west  wind  brought  us  one 

Serene,  warm,  cloudless,  crystal  day, 

As  though  September,  having  blown 

A  blast  of  tempest,  now  had  thrown 

A  gauntlet  to  the  favored  May. 

Backward  to  Spring  our  fancies  flew, 
And,  careless  of  the  course  of  Time, 

The  bloomy  days  began  anew. 

Then,  as  a  happy  dream  comes  true, 
Or  as  a  poet  finds  his  rhyme, — 


A   SEPTEMBER    VIOLET  35 

Half  wondered  at,  half  unbelieved, — 

I  found  thee,  friendliest  of  the  flowers! 
Then  Summer's  joys  came  back,  green-leaved, 
And  its  doomed  dead,  awhile  reprieved, 
First  learned  how  truly  they  were  ours. 

Dear  violet !  Did  the  Autumn  bring 
Thee  vernal  dreams,  till  thou,  like  me, 

Didst  climb  to  thy  imagining? 

Or  was  it  that  the  thoughtful  Spring 
Did  come  again,  in  search  of  thee  ? 


36  SEPTEMBER'S  EVE 


SEPTEMBER'S   EVE 


'T  is  Nature's  temple,  and  the  day 
Is  full  of  worship  as  of  light. 
A  sigh  from  now  and  't  will  be  night ; 
The  lordly  vision  will  not  stay. 
With  dusky  incense  throbs  the  gray 
Half  dome  of  sky.     A  cloistered  note 
Of  lingering  bird-song  sounds  remote 
As  the  last  echo  of  a  hymn 
Sung  in  recessional,  cold  and  dim. 
I  worship,  but  as  though  the  praise 
Must  pass  through  Nature's  priestly  ways, 
For  God  doth  seem  as  lone  and  far 
As  yonder  uncompanioned  star, 
September's  Eve. 


SEPTEMBER'S  EVE  37 


ALONG  the  mountain's  altar  crest 
The  russet  deepens  in  the  West, 
As  when  to  richer  chords  the  close 
Of  noble  music  softly  flows. 
Now  speed  my  footsteps  through  the  dark, 
I  see  my  leaping  hearth,  and  hark ! 
Th'  expectant  children's  view-halloo 
Rings  out  a  melody  of  cheer. 
The  rushing  feet  approach;  I  hear 
The  lavish  welcome  panting  through. 
How  bright  the  sudden  stars  appear 
In  friendly  groups !     Now  God  is  near, 
For  Love  is  in  her  temple,  too, 
September's  Eve. 


38  OCTOBER 


OCTOBER 

SOFT  days  whose  silver  moments  keep 
The  constant  promise  of  the  morn, 
When  tired  equinoctials  sleep, 
And  wintry  winds  are  yet  unborn: 
What  one  of  all  the  twelve  more  dear — 
Thou  truce  and  Sabbath  of  the  year? 

More  restful  art  thou  than  the  May, 
And  if  less  hope  be  in  thy  hand, 
Some  cares  't  were  grief  to  understand 
Thou  hid'st,  as  is  the  mother's  way, 
With  mists  and  lights  of  fairy-land 
Set  on  the  borders  of  the  day. 

And  best  of  all  thou  dost  beguile 
With  color, —  friendliest  thought  of  God! 
Than  thine  hath  heaven  itself  a  smile 
More  rich  ?    Are  feet  of  angels  shod 
With  peace  more  fair  ?     O  month  divine ! 
Stay,  till  thy  tranquil  soul  be  mine. 


IN  NOVEMBER  39 


IN    NOVEMBER 

HERE  is  the  watershed  of  all  the  year, 
Where,  by  a  thought's  space,  thoughts  do  start  anear 
That  fare  most  widely  forth :  some  to  the  mouth 
Of  Arctic  rivers,  some  to  the  mellow  South. 

The  gaunt  and  wrinkled  orchard  shivers  'neath 
The  blast,  like  Lear  upon  the  English  heath, 
And  mossy  boughs  blow  wild  that,  undistressed, 
Another  spring  shall  hide  the  cheerful  nest. 

All  things  are  nearer  from  this  chilly  crown, — 
The  solitude,  the  white  and  huddling  town ; 
And  next  the  russet  fields,  of  harvest  shorn, 
Shines  the  new  wheat  that  freshens  all  the  morn. 

From  out  the  bursting  milkweed,  dry  and  gray, 
The  silken  argosies  are  launched  away, 
To  mount  the  gust,  or  drift  from  hill  to  hill 
And  plant  new  colonies  by  road  and  rill. 


40  IN  NOVEMBER 

Ah,  wife  of  mine,  whose  clinging  hand  I  hold, 
Shrink  you  before  the  New,  or  at  the  Old? 
And  those  far  eyes  that  hold  the  silence  fast — 
Look  they  upon  the  Future,  or  the  Past? 


ON  N EARING    WASHINGTON  41 


ON    NEARING   WASHINGTON 

CITY  of  homes  and  in  my  heart  my  home ! 
(Though  other  streets  exact  a  grudging  fee) : 
How  leap  my  pulses  when  afar  I  see 
The  dawn  creep  whitening  down  thy  solemn  dome! 

For  now  my  care-restricted  steps  may  roam 
Thy  urban  groves  —  a  forest  soon  to  be  — 
Where,  like  thy  shining  river,  placid,  free, 
Contentment  dwells  and  beckons  me  to  come. 

Ah,  city  dear  to  lovers! — that  dost  keep 

For  their  delight   what    Mays   and  what   Novem- 
bers !  — 

Kindling  the  flame,  and  if  it  ever  sleep, 
New-lighting  it  within  the  breathing  embers; 
Rear  even  in  their  sorrow!  for  when  they  weep 
T  is  for  rare  joys,  scarce  known  till  Love  remem- 
bers. 


42  "AS  A   BELL  IN  A    CHIMED 


"AS  A   BELL  IN   A   CHIME" 

As  a  bell  in  a  chime 

Sets  its  twin-note  a-ringing, 

As  one  poet's  rhyme 

Wakes  another  to  singing, 

So,  once  she  has  smiled, 

All  your  thoughts  are  beguiled 
And  flowers  and  song  from  your  childhood  are  bringing. 

Though  moving  through  sorrow 
As  the  star  through  the  night, 

She  needs  not  to  borrow, 
She  lavishes,  light. 

The  path  of  yon  star 

Seemeth  dark  but  afar: 
Like  hers  it  is  sure,  and  like  hers  it  is  bright 


"AS  A   BELL  IN  A    CHIME"  43 

Each  grace  is  a  jewel 

Would  ransom  the  town, 
Her  speech  has  no  cruel, 

Her  praise  is  renown ; 
'T  is  in  her  as  though  Beauty, 
Resigning  to  Duty 
The  scepter,  had  still  kept  the  purple  and  crown. 


IN  THE  DARK 


IN   THE    DARK 

AT  dusk,  when  Slumber's  gentle  wand 
Beckons  to  quiet  fields  my  boy, 

And  day,  whose  welcome  was  so  fond, 
Is  slighted  like  a  rivaled  toy, — 

When  fain  to  follow,  fain  to  stay, 

Toward  night's  dim  border-line  he  peers, 

We  say  he  fears  the  fading  day : 
Is  it  the  inner  dark  he  fears? 

His  deep  eyes,  made  for  wonder,  keep 
Their  gaze  upon  some  land  unknown, 

The  while  the  crowding  questions  leap 
That  show  his  ignorance  my  own. 

For  he  would  go  he  knows  not  where, 
And  I  —  I  hardly  know  the  more; 

Yet  what  is  dark  and  what  is  fair 
He  would  to-night  with  me  explore. 


IN   THE  DARK  '     45 

Upon  the  shoals  of  my  poor  creed 
His  plummet  falls,  but  cannot  rest; 

To  sound  the  soundless  is  his  need, 
To  find  the  primal  soul  his  quest. 

In  vain  these  bird- like  flutterings, 
As  when  through  cages  sighs  the  wind: 

My  clearest  answer  only  brings 

New  depths  of  mystery  to  his  mind, — 

Vague  thoughts,  by  crude  surmise  beset, 
And  groping  doubts  that  loom  and  pass 

Like  April  clouds  that,  shifting,  fret 

With  tides  of  shade  the  sun-wooed  grass. 

O  lonely  soul  within  the  crowd 
Of  souls !  O  language-seeking  cry ! 

How  black  were  noon  without  a  cloud 
To  vision  only  of  the  eye ! 

Sleep,  child !  while  healing  Nature  breaks 
Her  ointment  on  the  wounds  of  Thought; 

Joy,  that  anew  with  morning  wakes, 

Shall  bring  you  sight  it  ne'er  has  brought. 


46  IN  THE  DARK 

Lord,  if  there  be,  as  wise  men  spake, 
No  Death,  but  only  Fear  of  Death, 

And  when  Thy  temple  seems  to  shake 
T  is  but  the  shaking  of  our  breath, — 

Whether  by  day  or  night  we  see 

Clouds  where  Thy  winds  have  driven  none, 

Let  unto  us  as  unto  Thee 
The  darkness  and  the  light  be  one. 


GOOD  MEASURE   OF  LOVE  47 


GOOD   MEASURE   OF   LOVE 

ONE  twilight  was  there  when  it  seemed 
New  stars  beneath  young  eyelids  gleamed 

In  vain  the  warning  clock  would  creep 
Anear  the  hour  of  beauty-sleep. 

In  vain  the  trundle  yearned  to  hold 
Far-Eyes  and  little  Heart-of-Gold ; 

And  love  that  kisses  are  the  stuff  of 
At  last  for  once  there  was  enough  of, 

As  though  of  all  Affection's  round 

The  fond  climacteric  had  been  found  — 

Each  childish  fancy  heaping  more, 
Like  spendthrift  from  a  miser-store, 


48  GOOD  MEASURE   OF  LOVE 

Till  stopped  by  hug  and  stayed  by  kiss — 
The  sweet  contention  ran  like  this: 

"How  much  do  I  love  you?"  (I  remember  but 
Of  the  words  of  the  troth  of  this  lover) 

"I  love  you" — he  said — "why — I  love  you — a  1 
Brimful  and  running  over. 

"  I  love  you  a  hundred!"  said  he,  with  a  squeez 

"  A  thousand ! "  said  she,  as  she  nestled ; 
"  A  million ! "  he  cried  in  triumphant  ease 
While  she  with  the  numbers  wrestled. 

"Aha!  I  have  found  it!"  she  shouted,  "aha!" 
(The  red  to  the  soft  cheeks  mounting) 

"I  love  you  —  I  love  you  —  I  love  you,  Papa, 
Over  the  last  of  the  counting ! " 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE  49 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE 

WHAT  is  diviner  than  the  peace  of  foes! 

He  conquers  not  who  does  not  conquer  hate, 
Or  thinks  the  shining  wheels  of  heaven  wait 
On  his  forgiving.     Dimmer  the  laurel  shows 

On  brows  that  darken;  and  war- won  repose 
Is  but  a  truce  when  heroes  abdicate 
To  Huns  —  unfabling  those  of  elder  date 
Whose  every  corse  a  fiercer  warrior  rose. 

O  ye  that  saved  the  land!     Ah  yes,  and  ye 

That  mourned  its  saving!     Neither  need  forget 
The  price  our  destiny  did  of  both  demand  — 

Toil,  want,  wounds,  prison,  and  the  lonely  sea 
Of  tears  at  home.    Oh,  look  on  these.    And  yet- 
Before  the  human  fail  you — quick!  your  hand! 


50      ON  A   CANDIDATE  ACCUSED   OF   YOUTH 


ON  A  CANDIDATE  ACCUSED  OF  YOUTH 

"Too  young"  do  they  call  him?   Who  say  it?  Not  they 
Who  have  felt  his  hard  stroke  in  the  civic  affray, 
When  elders,  whom  veteran  fighters  had  taught 
Till  they  knew  all  the  rules  by  which  battles  are  fought, 
Fumbled  weakly  with  weapons  his  foresight  had  sought. 

Who  thinks  of  his  youthfulness  ?     Surely  not  they 
Who  stood  at  his  side  through  the  wavering  day, 
And  knew  the  quick  vision,  the  planning  exact 
Of  parry  and  thrust,  till  the  stout  helmet  cracked 
'Neath  the  bold  and  true  blow  that  is  better  than  tact. 

Yea,  the  strength  of  the  arm  is  the  strength  of  its  use, 
Not  its  years;  and  when  fighting  is  on,  better  choose 
Not  the  rust-eaten  sword  from  the  library  wall, 
But  the  new  blade  that  leaps  in  its  sheath  at  the  call. 
Ask  the  foe  by  which  weapon  he  fears  most  to  fall ! 


WASHINGTON  HYMN  5i 


WASHINGTON   HYMN 

SUNG   AT   THE    LAYING   OF   THE    CORNER-STONE    OF   THE 

WASHINGTON    MEMORIAL  ARCH,   NEW  YORK,   MAY 

30,  1890,  TO   THE  AIR  OF  THE   AUSTRIAN 

HYMN    BY    HAYDN 

PRAISE  to  Thee,  O  God  of  Freedom, 

Praise  to  Thee,  O  God  of  Law, 
Thee  the  goal  of  Israel's  dreaming, 

Thee  the  flame  that  Moses  saw; 
Light  of  every  patriot  dungeon, 

Home  of  exile,  hope  of  slave, 
Loved  by  just  and  feared  by  tyrant, 

Comrade  of  the  true  and  brave. 

Would  we  pray  for  new  defenders, 
Thou  art  with  us  ere  we  call; 

Thou  wilt  find  new  ranks  of  heroes 
For  the  heroes  yet  to  fall. 


52  WASHINGTON  HYMN 

Back  we  look  across  the  ages, 
Forward  Thou  beyond  the  sun, 

Yet  no  greater  gift  we  ask  Thee 
Than  another  Washington. 


TO  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  53 


TO    RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF    GARFIELD,    SEPTEMBER,    l88l 

POET  of  every  soul  that  grieves 
O'er  death  untimely:  whose  lament 

Lights  up  the  farthest  Dark,  and  leaves 
A  bow  across  the  heavens  bent : 

Dead  in  an  upper  room  doth  lie 

A  nation's  hero;  can  it  be 
Thy  ear  too  faintly  hears  the  cry 

The  West  wind  utters  to  the  sea  ? 

Thy  Concord  paean  may  have  caught 
Glow  from  an  elder  Garfield's  name : 

What  fitter  aureole  could  be  sought 
For  such  a  son  than  such  a  flame ! 


54  TO  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Bard  of  the  Human :  since  we  yearn 
For  that  one  manly  heart  in  vain, 

Forgive  the  reverent  eyes  that  turn 

Toward  the  low  stream  in  Concord  plain. 

Warned  by  the  favoring  touch  of  Death, 
Thy  Nunc  Dimittis  thou  hast  sung; 

No  more  the  thunder's  stormy  breath 

Shall  sweep  the  lyre  with  lightnings  strung. 

And  yet,  for  him,  remains — unsigned, 
Unspoken — all  thy  noble  praise, 

When  (port  more  worth  the  cruise !)  thou  find 
His  sail  beyond  the  final  haze; 

But  us? O  Seer,  to  whose  gift 

Looms  large  the  Future's  better  part, 

What  other  prophet  voice  shall  lift 
This  burden  from  the  people's  heart! 


ILLUSIONS  55 


ILLUSIONS 

Go  stand  at  night  upon  an  ocean  craft, 
And  watch  the  folds  of  its  imperial  train 
Catching  in  fleecy  foam  a  thousand  glows  — 
A  miracle  of  fire  unquenched  by  sea. 
There  in  bewildering  turbulence  of  change 
Whirls  the  whole  firmament,  till  as  you  gaze, 
All  else  unseen,  it  is  as  heaven  itself 
Had  lost  its  poise,  and  each  unanchored  star 
In  phantom  haste  flees  to  the  horizon  line. 

What  dupes  we  are  of  the  deceiving  eye ! 
How  many  a  light  men  wonderingly  acclaim 
Is  but  the  phosphor  of  the  path  Life  makes 
With  its  own  motion,  while  above,  forgot, 
Sweep  on  serene  the  old  unenvious  stars ! 


5  6  TO-MORROW 


TO-MORROW 

ONE  walks  secure  in  wisdom-trodden  ways 
That  lead  to  peaceful  nights  through  happy   days 
Health,  fame,  friends,  children,  and  a  gentle  wife, 
All  Youth  can  covet  or  Experience  praise, 
And  Use  withal  to  crown  the  ease  of  life. 

Ah,  thirsting  for  another  day, 
How  dread  the  fear 

If  he  but  knew  the  danger  near! 

Another,  with  some  old  inheritance 
Of  Fate,  unmitigated  yet  by  Chance, — 
Condemned  by  those  he  loves,  with  no  appeal 
To  his  own  fearful  heart,  that  ever  pants 
For  newer  circlings  of  the  cruel  Wheel ! 

Ah,  thirsting  for  another  day, 
What  need  of  fear 

If  he  but  knew  the  help  that  's  near? 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BURIAL   URN  57 


INSCRIPTION    FOR   A   BURIAL   URN 

FIRE  is  older  than  Earth, 

Swaddled  her  at  her  birth, 

Shall  be  her  windy  shroud. 

Fear  whispers,  Earth  with  fire  endowed 

Is  all  of  Life:  but  the  Soul's  Desire 

Is  something  other  than  earth  and  fire, 

And  cannot  mold  or  burn. 

Of  this  is  Honor  made,  and  Truth, 

And  Love  that  shall  out-light  the  star. 

Go  find  when  these  began  their  youth, 

Then  guess  their  age's  farthest  bar ; 

But  look  not  for  it  in  grave  or  urn. 


58  QUALITY 


QUALITY 


TAKE,  ere  the  bee  hath  sipped, 

The  courtly,  maiden-lipped, 

And  dewy  oleander, 

And  breathe,  and  dream,  and  wander. 

But  ah!  take  not  another, 

Lest  fragrance  fragrance  smother. 


What  all  your  wreathed  wine 
To  what  I  taste  of  mine  ? 
See  the  spilled  jewels  run, 
Red  as  an  autumn  sun!  — 
Each  holding  warm  and  clear 
The  vintage  of  a  year. 


QUALITY  59 


III 

Stranger,'  thy  passing  word 
My  waiting  heart  hath  stirred; 
My  life  to  thee  I  lend! 
This  hour  thou  art  my  friend, 
And  could  not  dearer  be 
Loved  an  eternity. 


60  LUCK  AND   WORK 


LUCK  AND  WORK 

WHILE  one  will  search  the  season  over 
To  find  the  magic  four-leaved  clover, 
Another,  with  not  half  the  trouble, 
Will  plant  a  crop  to  bear  him  double. 


ON  A   GREAT  POETS  OBSCURITY  61 


ON  A  GREAT  POET'S  OBSCURITY 

WHAT  means  his  line  ?     You  say  none  knows  ? 

Yet  one  perhaps  may  learn — in  time: 
For,  sure,  could  Life  be  told  in  prose 

There  were  no  need  at  all  for  rhyme. 

Alike  two  waters  blunt  the  sight  — 
The  muddy  shallow  and  the  sea; 

Here  every  current  leads  aright 
To  deeps  where  lucent  wonders  be. 


62  WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS 

WRITTEN   IN   EMERSON'S   POEMS 
(FOR  A  CHILD) 

MIDNIGHT  or  morning,  eve  or  noon, 
Torn  March  or  clover-scented  June, — 

Whene'er  you  stand  before  this  gate, 
T  will  open  —  if  but  not  too  soon 

You  knock,  if  only  not  too  late. 

Well  shall  it  be  if,  boyhood  gone, 
A  boy's  delight  you  still  may  own 

To  play  the  dawn-new  game  of  life,— 
If  what  is  dreamed  and  what  is  known 

In  your  still-startled  heart  have  strife. 

Ere  you  have  banished  Mystery, 
Or  throned  Distrust,  or  less  shall  be 

Stirred  by  the  deep  and  fervent  line 
Which  is  the  poet's  sign  and  fee: 

Be  this  your  joy  that  now  is  mine. 


WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS  63 

When  comes  the  hour,  be  full  and  bright 
Your  lamp,  as  the  wiser  virgins'  light ! 

Choose  some  familiar,  shrine-like  nook, 
And  offer  up  in  prayer  the  night 

Upon  the  altar  of  this  book. 

Always  new  earth,  new  he/svens  lie 
The  apocalyptic  spirit  nigh : 

If  such  be  yours,  oh,  while  you  can, 
Bid  unregretted  Youth  good-bye, 

For  morning  shall  proclaim  you  Man. 


64  AMIEL 

AMIEL 
(THE  "JOURNAL  INTIME") 

A  FEW  there  are  who  to  the  troubled  soul 
Can  lay  the  ear  with  that  physician-art 
Which  by  a  whispered  accent  in  the  heart 
Follows  the  lurking  treason  that  hath  stole 

Into  the  citadel; — a  few  whose  scroll 
Of  warning  bears  our  safety, — is  a  chart 
Of  our  unsounded  seas,  and  doth  impart 
Courage  to  hold  the  spirit  to  its  goal. 

Of  such  is  Amiel,  lonely  as  a  saint, — 

Or  as  an  eagle  dwelling  on  peaks,  in  shade 
Of  clouds,  which  now  he  cleaves  for  one  wide  look 

At  the  green  earth,  now  for  a  circle  faint 

Nearer  the  sun.    Once  more  has  Truth  betrayed 
Secrets  to  Sorrow  not  in  the  sibyl's  book. 


THE   GUEST  OF  THE  EVENING"  65 


"THE    GUEST   OF   THE    EVENING" 
(READ  AT  THE  DINNER  TO  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER, 

ON    HIS    BIRTHDAY   FEBRUARY   8,    1884) 

GOOD  actions  are  a  fruit  so  ripe  and  rare 
They  bear  not  fingering.     Let  me  then  beware 
To  touch  with  venturous  hand  this  curving  branch, 
Nor  lean  too  heedlessly  against  the  tree 
Thus,  at  its  prime,  o'erladen  heavily 
With  golden  harvest  full  and  sweet  and  stanch, — 
Lest  I  by  some  rude  shock,  at  this  light  hour, 
Bring  down  the  Virtues  in  a  mellow  shower. 

To  drop  the  figure,  friends, — let  's  be  content 

The  guest  shall  fancy  less  than  we  have  meant; 

Speak  not  too  closely  of  his  special  good, 

That  we  are  here  tells  more  than  trumpets  could. 

Our  friendship  holds  his  virtues  as  the  light 

Holds  the  hid  rainbow — storm  but  makes  them  bright; 

The  modest  veil  they  wear  I  may  not  raise 

Lest  he  should  blush  to  hear,  and  I  to  praise. 


66  SALVINI 


SALVINI 

DEAD  is  old  Greece,"  they  mourned  ere  yet  arose 
This  Greek — this  oak  of  old  Achaian  graft 
Seed-sown    where    westward   tempests   wept  and 
laughed, 

As  now  when  some  great  gust  of  heaven  blows 

From  lair  levantine.     How  the  giant  grows!  — 
Not  to  lone  ruin  of  a  withered  shaft, 
But  quaffing  life  in  every  leafy  draught, — 

Fathered  by  Storm  and  mothered  by  Repose. 

Nay,  doubt    the    Greeks    are    gone  till,  this   green 

crest 

In  splendor  fallen,  round  the  wrack  shall  be 
Prolonged,  like  memories  of  a  noble  guest, 

The  phantom  glory  of  the  actor's  day. 
Then,  musing  on  Olympus,  men  shall  say 
The  myth  of  Jove  took  rise  from  lesser  majesty. 


FOR   TEARS  67 


FOR   TEARS 

SOME  birches  from  the  winter  snow  unbend, 
And  some  lie  prone  the  happy  summer  long: 

Is  grief  but  weakness  ?    May  it  be,  blithe  friend, 
The  heavier  burden  stays  but  on  the  strong? 


68  APPREHENSIONS 


APPREHENSIONS 

SEVEN  days  we  sought  the  horizon  line,  elate, 
Without  a  sea-born  doubt  of  things  to  come; 
Then  on  the  eighth,  upon  the  sill  of  home, 

A  fog,  not  of  the  sea,  fell  with  a  weight 

Upon  our  spirits.  Where  was  noon's  rich  freight 
Of  summer  cheer,  the  darkness  spoke  of  doom, 
Till  thoughts  familiar  did  such  dole  assume 

We  could  but  cling  before  the  coming  fate. 

In  port — what  greeting?    From  beloved  lips 
The  same  "  All  's  well ! "  that  could  not  charm 

our  woe 
Chanted  an  ocean  litany  against  harm; 

Our  happiness  swung  forth  from  fear's  eclipse. 
Alas !  upon  a  fearless  friend  the  blow 
Fell  like  first  lightning  from  long-gathered  storm. 


BROWNING  AT  A  SOLO  69 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 
(INSCRIBED  TO  HIS  FRIEND  MRS.  ARTHUR  BRONSON) 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved, 

High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue !  — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves.     O  tranquil  scene ! 
Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  between  ? 

See!   yonder  's  his  Venice — the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others :    the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 


70  BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred  row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he!  — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in   ...    ah,  me ! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the  bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 

When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  should  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss 
And  dream  of  Asolo  ever  again  ? 

"  Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan  ? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

"LA  MURA,"  ASOLO,  June  3,  1892. 


AT  SEA  71 


Jf 
AT  SEA 

SOME  things  are  undivined  except  by  love- 
Vague  to  the  mind,  but  real  to  the  heart, 
As  is  the  point  of  yon  horizon  line 
Nearest  the  dear  one  on  a  foreign  shore. 


72  MOODS  OF   THE  SOUL 

MOODS   OF   THE   SOUL 
I. —  IN  TIME  OF  VICTORY 

As  soldiers  after  fight  confess 

The  fear  their  valor  would  not  own 

When,  ere  the  battle's  thunder  stress, 
The  silence  made  its  mightier  moan : 

Though  now  the  victory  be  mine, 
'T  is  of  the  conflict  I  must  speak, 

Still  wondering  how  the  Hand  Divine 
Confounds  the  mighty  with  the  weak. 

To-morrow  I  may  flaunt  the  foe — 
Not  now;  for  in  the  echoing  beat 

Of  fleeing  heart-throbs  well  I  know 
The  bitterness  of  near  defeat. 

O  friends !  who  see  but  steadfast  deeds, 
Have  grace  of  pity  with  your  praise. 

Crown  if  you  must,  but  crown  with  weeds, — 
The  conquered  more  deserve  your  bays. 


MOODS  OF   THE  SOUL  73 

No,  praise  the  dead!  —  the  ancestral  roll 
That  down  their  line  new  courage  send, 

For  moments  when  against  the  soul 
All  hell  and  half  of  heaven  contend. 


II. —  IN  TIME  OF  DEFEAT 

YES,  here  is  undisguised  defeat — 
You  say,  "  No  further  fight  to  lose." 

With  colors  in  the  dust,  't  is  meet 

That  tears  should  flow  and  looks  accuse. 

I  echo  every  word  of  ruth 

Or  blame:  yet  have  I  lost  the  right 
To  praise  with  you  the  unfaltering  Truth, 

Whose  power — save  in  me — has  might? 

Another  day,  another  man: 

I  am  not  now  what  I  have  been; 

Each  grain  that  through  the  hour-glass  ran 
Rescued  the  sinner  from  his  sin. 


74  MOODS  OF   THE  SOUL 

The  Future  is  my  constant  friend; 

Above  all  children  born  to  her 
Alike  her  rich  affections  bend  — 

She,  the  unchiding  comforter. 

Perhaps  on  her  unsullied  scroll 

(Who  knows?)  there  may  be  writ  at  last 

A  fairer  record  of  the  soul 

For  this  dark  blot  upon  the  Past. 


TO  LEONORA  75 

TO    LEONORA 

(AT    HER   DEBUT,    OCTOBER    1 8,    1891) 

FAIR  sister  of  the  Muses,  't  is  the  hour, 

Dearest  of  all,  when  thou  dost  wed  thy  Art. 
No  bride  more  radiant  a  more  single  heart 
Gave  to  her  chosen — and  what  noble  dower! 

Graces  akin  to  forest  and  to  flower; 
A  spirit  blithe  as  dawn;  a  soul  astart; 
A  nature  rich,  to  keep  thee  what  thou  art  — 
A  star  of  beauty  and  a  flame  of  power. 

Now,  while  the  tranced  throng  turn  each  to  each 
Sharing  their  joy,  think'st  thou  on  those  young  years 
When  many  a  day  and  night  was  unbeguiled 

Save  by  this  love  that  lightened  toil  and  tears? 
Thy  music  melts  upon  the  verge  of  speech; 
Fame  greets  the  artist  —  I,  the  constant  child. 


76  HERBERT  MAPES 


HERBERT   MAPES 
(DROWNED  AUGUST  23,  1891) 

LAST  night,  what  kingdom  on  his  brow ! 

What  mellow  music  in  his  voice! 

What  strength  to  make  the  eye  rejoice! 
What  life !  what  flush  of  youth !  .  .  .  and  now ! 

O  brow  dethroned  !     O  muffled  bell 
Of  speech  !     O  net  too  loosely  wove  ! 
O  sunken  freight  of  hope  and  love ! 

Come  back  till  we  have  said  farewell ! 


••- 

A    WISH  FOR  NEW  FRANCE  77 


A   WISH    FOR   NEW   FRANCE 
(FRAGMENT) 

FOR  her  no  backward  look 
Into  the  bloody  book 

Of  kings.     Thrice-rescued  land  ! 
Her  haunted  graves  bespeak 
A  nobler  fate :  to  seek 
In  service  of  the  world  again  the  world's  command. 

She,  in  whose  skies  of  peace 
Arise  new  auguries 

To  strengthen,  cheer,  and  guide  — 
When  nations  in  a  horde 
Draw  the  unhallowed  sword, 
O  Memory,  walk  a  warning  specter  at  her  side ! 


78  DIVIDED  HONORS 


DIVIDED   HONORS* 

NATURE  had  late  a  strife  with  Art 
To  prove  which  bears  the  worthier  part 
In  poets'  fame.     The  words  ran  high 
While  Justice,  friend  to  both,  stood  by 
To  name  the  victor. 

Nature  rose, 

Impressive  in  her  artless  pose, 
And  in  a  few  words  fitly  chose 
(Confined  to  generalities) 
Pleaded  the  nature  of  the  thing — 
That  singers  born  to  sing  must  sing, 
That  it  could  not  be  otherwise; 
Spoke  of  the  poet's  "  flight  of  wing," 
His  "  flow  of  song,"  his  "  zephyr  sighs," 
And  hid  in  trope  and  allegory 
A  whole  campaign  of  a  priori. 

Then  Art  began  to  plead  her  cause ; 
Said  Nature's  windy  words  had  flaws — 

*  Written  for  the  dinner  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley  at  Indiana- 
polis, October  18,  1888. 


DIVIDED  HONORS  79 

That  e'en  the  larklet  soaring  high 
Must  surely  once  have  learned  to  fly 
And  eke  to  sing.     Moreover,  Song 
Is  something  more  than  baby-prattle; 
Or  plow-boy's  carol  to  the  cattle; 
Or  love's  acrostic — though  it  be 
Faultless  (at  one  extremity); 
Or  verse  that  school-girls  spoil  a  day  for, 
Found  good  to  print,  but  not  to  pay  for. 
This  well  she  with  herself  debated, 
And,  lacking  points,  elaborated, 
And,  like  a  lawyer  closely  pressed, 
Naught  having  proved,  assumed  the  rest. 

But  Justice,  knowing  how  to  prick 

The  airy  globes  of  rhetoric, 

Said,  "  Friends,  your  theories  are  ample, 

Yet  light  upon  the  case  we  need, 

And,  me  judice,  she  '11  succeed 

Who  shall  present  the  best  example." 

A  moment  both  were  still  as  death, 

Then  shouted  "  Shakespeare ! "  in  a  breath ; 


8o  DIVIDED  HONORS 

And  then,  confounded  by  each  other 

(While  pondering  moderated  pother), 

Ran  down  the  list  of  English  charmers, 

As  in  a  fugue  of  two  performers : 

'Twas  "Chaucer!"  "Philip  Sidney!"  "Donne!1 

"  George  Herbert ! "  "  Milton ! "  "  Tennyson ! " 
And,  quick  as  either  one  would  name  them, 
The  other  would  be  sure  to  claim  them! — 
Till  Justice — blindfold  all  these  years 
Because  she  can't  believe  her  eyes — 
Convinced  that  hearing,  too,  belies, 
Now  pulled  her  bandage  o'er  her  ears. 
Then  Nature,  in  affected  candor, 
Renounced  all  ownership  in  Landor, 
And  said :  "  Let  's  both  make  fair  returns ; 
I  '11  give  you  Keats  —  you  give  me  Burns." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Art,  "  you  have  a  fit  man, — 
Your  whole  contention  lies  in  Whitman." 
Then,  she  not  wanting  from  her  rival 
A  gift  of  what  was  hers  by  right, 
At  once  there  followed  a  revival 
Of  acrimony — till  in  fright 
Pale  Justice,  with  a  sly  suggestion 
Of  dining,  moved  the  previous  question. 


DIVIDED   HONORS  8 1 

But  Nature,  conscious  of  her  force, 

Had  in  reserve  a  shrewd  resource, 

And,  while  the  judgment  hung  uncertain, 

She  quickly  drew  aside  a  curtain, 

And,  full  of  confidence,  said  dryly : 

I  rest  my  case  on  Whitcomb  Riley ! 

And  further  to  enforce  my  right, 

He  has  consented  to  recite, 

That  all  may  see  by  how  large  part 

He  has  possession  of  my  heart." 


Five  minutes !  and  the  wager  's  o'er : 
A  ballad,  homely,  simple,  true  — 
And  then,  and  ever  after,  you 
See  Nature  as  you  'd  ne'er  before. 
First  is  the  kind  eye's  twinkling  ray 
So  lit  with  human  sympathy 
That,  kindled  by  its  flash,  you  say 
Humor  's  the  true  democracy. 
The  next  note  's  deeper — there  's  no  guile 
Mixed  with  the  shrewdness  of  that  smile 
That  breaks  from  sadness  into  joy — 
The  man's  glad  memory  of  the  boy. 


82  DIVIDED  HONORS 

Then  tears,  ah!  they  are  Nature's  rain, 
The  tears  of  love  and  death  and  grief 
And  rapture — the  divine  relief 
That  gives  us  back  the  sun  again. 


No  more  need  Nature  nurse  her  fears, 
For  look !  e'en  Art  herself  's  in  tears, 
And  in  the  general  acclaim 
The  jade  has  nigh  forgot  her  name. 
Yet  has  she  left  one  arrow  more, 
And,  proudly  rising  to  the  floor, 
;  Not  yet,"  she  says,  "  for  what  you  take 
For  Nature's  work  is  mine,  who  make 
Jewels  of  stones  that  else  would  lie 
Unnoticed  'neath  the  searching  sky. 
Receive  the  secret — mine  your  tears: 
He  's  been  my  pupil  fifteen  years!" 

Then  Justice  said :  "  Since  there  's  no  winner, 
*T  is  fair  the  two  should  pay  a  dinner; 
Nature  shall  furnish,  Art  prepare  it, 
And  Riley,  and  his  friends,  shall  share  it." 


A    TRACER  FOR  7***  B ********  83 


A  TRACER   FOR   J***  B* 


DEAR  ENGLISH  COUSINS  :  We  have  lost — 
And  crave  your  help  to  find  him — 

A  farmer-poet,  ocean-tossed, 
With  no  address  behind  him. 

Yes,  though  of  song  he  write  no  stave, 

We  yet  will  call  him  poet: 
His  lines,  as  wave  with  following  wave, 

Make  rhythm  and  never  know  it. 

His  pages  grow  rare  fruits  of  thought, 

Rare  fruits  of  toil  his  furrows; 
His  name  ?     Why  hide  it  when  you  've  caught 

The  rhyme  I  seek?  —  John  Burroughs. 

I  doubt  if  in  the  London  round 

His  eager  feet  will  loiter, 
While  hedge  and  copse  of  Kentish  ground 

Are  left  to  reconnoiter. 


A    TRACER   FOR  J**k   B ******** 

There  he  '11  compare,  in  lulls  of  rain, 

Your  thrushes  with  our  cat-bird, 
And  quiz  the  lads  in  every  lane 

For  news  of  this  or  that  bird. 

Him  leaners  over  Stratford  gates 

Shall  mark,  by  Avon  strolling. 
A  poacher?     Ay,  but  on  estates 

Not  near  their  vision  rolling. 

When  Shakespeare  tribute  he  has  brought 

Across  the  loyal  ocean, 
He  '11  seek  some  haunt  that  Wordsworth  sought 

To  pay  his  next  devotion. 

His  "  next " — ah  !  rather  say  his  first, 
Since  friend  is  more  than  sovereign; 

Of  poets  be  the  truth  rehearsed: 
To  reign  is  not  to  govern. 

To  him  the  moor  shall  not  be  lone, 

Nor  any  footstep  idle 
Where  Nature  hoards  each  lingering  tone 

Of  the  human  voice  of  Rydal. 


A    TRACER  FOR  J***  ,9********  85 

By  poets  led,  he  will  not  grope, 
But  be,  from  Kent  to  Cumberland, 

At  home  as  on  his  Hudson  slope 
Or  Rip  Van  Winkle's  slumberland. 


How  shall  you  know  htm? — by  what  word, 
What  shibboleth,  what  mole-ridge  ?  — 

Him  who  will  find  an  English  bird 
Just  by  a  line  of  Coleridge  ? 

Of  outward  mark  the  quickest  test 

Is  that  he  wears  the  shading 
That  sober  Autumn  loves  the  best — 

Soft  gray  through  iron  fading. 

Tinged,  too,  are  beard  and  hair;  and  keen 

His  eye,  but  warm  and  witty; 
A  rustic  strength  is  in  his  mien, 

Made  mild  by  love  and  pity. 


86  A    TRACER  FOR  J***  .#****"** 

A  man  of  grave,  of  jolly  moods, 

That  with  the  world  has  kept  tune  — 

You  'd  call  him  Druid  in  the  woods, 
And  in  the  billows  Neptune. 

Another  sign  that  will  not  fail: 
Where'er  he  chance  to  tarry, — 

In  copse,  or  glen,  or  velvet  vale, 
Or  where  the  streamlets  marry, 

Or  on  the  peaks  whose  shadows  spread 
O'er  Grasmere's  level  reaches, — 

You  '11  note  shy  shakings  of  his  head 
Before  his  Saxon  speeches. 


in 


AH  me !  by  how  poor  facts  and  few 

A  stranger  may  detect  us, 
While  friends  may  never  find  the  clew, 

Though  keenly  they  inspect  us. 


A    TRACER  FOR  J'**  ff ********  87 

Of  things  that  make  the  man — alack! 

I  've  hardly  even  hinted ; 
We  speak  of  them — behind  his  back, 

But  here? — this  might  be  printed. 

Still  ...  he  'd  not  know  the  portrait  his — 

His  modesty  so  blinds  him  — 
But  no  !  ...  to  learn  what  Burroughs  is 

Shall  be  his  fee  who  finds  him. 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 


*w 


